


Cobalt Blue

by pyrrhickong



Category: Persona 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Fluff, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:47:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27126085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrrhickong/pseuds/pyrrhickong
Summary: Soulmates AU. Naoto Shirogane has a very bad, no-good, not fun, not ace detective day. Shenanigans ensue. Commission.
Relationships: Shirogane Naoto/Tatsumi Kanji
Comments: 7
Kudos: 48





	Cobalt Blue

She would recall the most memorable day of her life beginning with an utter cacophony. Her prospects would not improve from there.  
  


Naoto Shirogane was awoken by a combination of screeches, alarms, crashes, and what was once meant to be the theme to Phoenix Ranger Featherman Deux, Whatever pleasant dream she might have been having was completely erased, scraped out of her mind by the thunderous racket and the force of her eyes shooting open. The culprit was soon made obvious: her alarm clock had gone off an hour early. But it had not merely gone off; oh no, the damn machine was an _overachiever_. Long ago, she’d customized her clock with a secondary function: moving her hat directly next to her bed. It was a simple process - she’d installed a tiny mechanical arm on top, would hang her hat on it the night before, and when the alarm sounded, the arm would move ninety degrees to deliver her the sacred headware. Something she’d made as a child and had made a ritual of hers for decades. But no, today, the arm decided to come loose, dragging her hat down, the clock tumbling with it. And her desk calendar. And the glass of water she had prepared, shattered against the ground.  
  


And so her day began, groaning and complaining, trying to rescue what little of the electronic clock she could, picking glass shards out of her hat to ensure that her head remained stab-free. The entire sequence was so time-consuming, she reasoned that in order to make any and all proper appointments, a shower would be out of the question. She cursed herself as she approached her bathroom mirror, hands supporting her against the edge of her sink. She’d long since commented on the sloppy appearance of some of her colleagues down at the precinct; she was not about to come into work looking like Detective Adachi. The young detective sighed, picking up a comb as she attempted to do… _something_ with her hair. She wasn’t exactly sure what people did to make it presentable, just that combing eventually would relax the individual strands from their bed-frozen stupor.  
  


Cobalt blue. That was how she’d heard her hair described before, by a teacher whose face she no longer remembered. Naoto sighed, gazing at her reflection, seeing the same, dulled, darker tone that she saw in everything else. Evidently, she had been born into a world with a concept known as “color”, but it would only manifest when you met eyes with your “soulmate”. Those who had bonded often had a far more jovial outlook on the world, being able to describe it with such vibrancy.  
  


“Why would they restrict something so vital to a concept so prohibitive?” Naoto muttered. Indeed, the simple idea of color was invaluable to an investigator. Being able to trace things more easily by sight, finding more distinguishing elements at crime scenes that would otherwise not stand out, having an enhanced sense of peripheral vision as individual colors and objects moved by - these were obvious advantages that she presently lacked in her field. “Yet another setback I’ve been dealt” she sneered to herself, looking over her face. With the awful mood she found herself in, she found every feature - her wide eyes, her gently rounded cheeks, her thin jawline - disgustingly… no, prohibitively feminine.  
  


But it wasn’t just the obvious practical elements that made the arrangement infuriating - it was all of the psychological issues that came from it, too. It was a simple statistic that, more often than not, criminals were those who hadn’t found their soulmates - “loveless” they were often nicknamed by the less savory. Those feeling that love would never come to them, that their soulmates didn’t exist, that they couldn’t wait any longer, that they didn’t have someone else to live FOR like everyone else - they were the ones most likely to lash out, break rules, be set in bad situations. And those were the ones far less likely to notice details - a trail of blood left behind, how distinct the color of their clothing or getaway vehicle might be, even failing to avoid objects while fleeing as everything blends together in a blur of grays. A detective pursuing a loveless criminal was optimal and likely, she could recognize that much…  
  


… But why would _any_ detective want a soulmate? The job was dangerous enough as-is, having to worry about someone else - the person that you would absolutely care most about, in fact - being in danger as potential collateral damage was a massive strain. Additionally, if a detective fell in the field, their soulmate would assuredly be devastated, and through no fault of that soulmate’s own! It’s not _their_ fault that they won a lottery in which the one person they’re supposed to be with forever is on the razor’s edge of danger every day they go in for work! Such entanglements were not only unnecessary, but harmful, and yet _some_ god or force had decided that no, it’d be best to tie things together this way. Let every human be a vulnerable mess! Why not?! Normally, she wouldn’t find herself being so superficial, but this present need to focus on her looks left her in a bitter mood, she reasoned, smoothing out her hair to practically a comb over with how deeply she’d been lost in her own thoughts.  
  


It was only after she looked herself over one more time that Naoto realized she wore a hat. Her hair would be hidden anyway.  
  


Rarely does a Shirogane swear. But several gods and frustrating co-workers were damned in that moment. Under her breath, of course; she was hardly a ruffian, but they deserved it.  
  


This only continued as Naoto reached for the next element in her morning ritual: the tape that she used to bind her chest. As the law enforcement and investigative professions were male-dominated industries with a long-rooted cultural bias against women, she had taken to presenting herself as male. The process was, admittedly, uncomfortable, but she had grown used to it as a necessity for being able to have her theories actually be heard, and she admitted the aesthetic advantage to having her peacoats cleanly rest upon her body, with no emphasized curvature. And yet, she found herself woefully understocked in this highly necessary element, the binding tape used running to a halt before she found her chest entirely symmetrical in its flattening. Hesitantly, Naoto glanced at her watch. 7:55 AM. Five minutes until she wanted to be out the door. Her eye twitched in annoyance as a single pupil dilated. This. This wouldn’t do.  
  


The detective’s mind followed a simple train of thought, her body obeying almost subconsciously as the found the quickest remedy to this solution. The problem was that she lacked proper binding for her chest. The solution was to procure something else that would bind. Such materials would be located in the junk drawer of her study, containing various materials. However, those are not designed for contact with human skin like her proper bindings are. Therefore, adjustments would need to be made carefully utilizing a proper cutting apparatus.  
  


Naoto analyzed around the fact that she was cutting duct tape to slap on her chest so her bindings were stronger. If she thought of it that way, it sounded pretty dumb. She refused to sound dumb, so she did not think of it that way.  
  


At least, her ordeals over, Naoto swiftly clothed herself. The rest of her outfit, thankfully, was more cooperative than her hat had been today, folded neatly for her eventual wearing and placed on a coat rack as she approached. Equipping herself with all necessities - pants, undershirt, weapon, notepad, phone, wallet - she made for her favorite coat, arm outstretched to nab it and be wrapped in its familiar, debonair embrace. Perhaps a bit melodramatic, she thought, but she was looking for comfort this morning. And indeed, the coat easily slipped onto her body, easily buttoned up as a process she’d repeated hundreds of times. Some might call it silly, wearing the same outfit over and over again, but Naoto found it practical; besides, evidently it matched her hair and looked exceptional, a small detail she’d take pride in. However, her pride was cut short by something horrid: an assailant, striking from behind! Before she could detect an intruder, Naoto felt a swift bump on the back of her head. It wasn’t enough to knock her out - far from it, her attacker must have been quite clumsy - but she still was assaulted in the privacy of her own home! With a grunt, Naoto drew her revolver, whipping it behind her…

  
And striking the coat rack that had leaned over and hit her on the head. The detective quickly reasoned what happened to her: her coat had caught on the rack by its collar, and had dragged it down on her as she attempted to leave. Rather than feel silly, she growled at the poor, pistol-whipped hanging apparatus. Yet another setback for her, and more importantly, another reminder of her height. Was it truly necessary to have a six-foot device to hang a coat intended for a five-foot detective? The standardization was absolutely ludicrous. A scathing remark escaped her lips, “You are stupid, and I am not short.” Naoto exited, hoping that the coat rack would consider what it did and improve next time. The coat rack, however, lacked the emotional capacity for remorse, or in fact, the emotional capacity for anything, so it remained on the ground, due to being a coat rack.  
  


Clouds hung heavy in the sky, only adding to the dourness of the detective’s mood. Already, she was brooding over her morning, what what was it she had to look forward to at the precinct? Imbeciles rejecting her theories, not because they had anything better to present, but because pursuing them would be too time-consuming. Likely rubbed off with the excuse of “heh, sure kid, we’ll get right on that” or “let the adults talk”. Watching incompetent buffoons try to assign her to patrol duties, when they knew _plainly well_ that she was a special consultant, not part of the force; just trying to find some excuse to get rid of her, some ludicrous excuse to “pay her dues” or something. Going from a miserable morning to make sure she was on-time for a miserable day… this was the glamorous life of a detective she’d dreamed of, that she’d seen her grandfather in for years, was it? Wonderful.  
  


So lost in her own pouting was Naoto that she hardly even noticed a passing car. That is, until she found herself feeling particularly cold, and unusually damp. When she looked down with some slight horror, she realized that the vehicle had hit a puddle, covering her from roughly the chest down on her left side with a hearty splash of stagnant rainwater, dirt, and whatever other human element had collected on the side of a street. Realizing she was in public, Naoto could barely suppress a screech; ALL of that effort to appear presentable and THIS is how she was rewarded? Realizations hit her one after the other: she was far too far away from home to procure a change of clothing and still arrive to work on time, any requests for outfits at the precinct would be met with further harassment, even enduring that harassment wouldn’t do her good as she would have to undress to put new clothing on and risk exposure and attention she would do everything in her power to avoid being revealed, rainwater had the odd propensity to smell a bit like stale cabbage water, she would be compared to Detective Adachi all day in the case of scent, she would likely have to endure sympathies from him in some kind of disgusting “we’re not so different” speech meant to make her feel better. Naoto shook her head, violently, attempting to dismiss the compounding thoughts and evidence compiling that this would be an utterly horrendous day. Just… soldier forth. Get through it. That’s all she could do.  
  


The march to the police station came by in a blur. So wrapped in her own thoughts and general discontent, Naoto barely noticed the passage of time. All for the better, she’d later reflect; the thought of others looking at her, slightly damp and muddy, would have caused at least some level of mortification. However, this laser focus was not without its drawbacks; upon arriving at the station’s doors, she went to straighten her coat, make herself as presentable as possible. But while adjusting her sleeves, she noticed something horrid: a slight tear at the back of her coat, at the seam to sleeve. In reality, this was an easy fix; there was a textile shop in town, she had noticed, and the damage done was simple. But no. This was her _favorite_ coat. And _something-she-didn’t-know-what_ tore it while she, a DETECTIVE, hadn’t noticed. A Shirogane never seethed, but Naoto introduced the concept to her family then and there, gnashing her teeth. “FINE, just one more thing… is there anything else you would care to add?!” she called out to no one in particular as she opened the door to the station.  
  


Then a flying coffee cup landed on her chest and spilled down her front.  
  


In reality, she’d just caught Tohru Adachi as he was preparing this morning’s brew, en route to deliver it directly to Detective Dojima. But her sudden entrance had caught the clumsy detective off-guard, or rather, caught him directly in the face and shin. The inward-opening door smashed right into Adachi’s nose, letting loose Dojima-san’s coffee mug into the air in the process. Naoto heard the CRASH of shattering porcelain before she felt the heat of the coffee dripping down her front, but needless to say, she was almost glad to screech when she felt how hot it was. Adachi, for his part, stayed on the ground and lamented that now, both his nose and his ears hurt, feigning his usual foolishness.  
  


However, in her screech, Naoto managed to notice something far more dire: the sound of a soggy, flaccid rrrrrip. Looking downward, she didn’t just find a torn coat splattered with coffee and mud. She found a torn coat splattered with coffee and mud with a very slight rise in the chest. Blushing fiercely, she turned away, praying that absolutely no one saw. Through all the sogginess, her makeshift bindings had come undone, leaving her pressed against a wall in order to prevent anyone from seeing. Unfortunately, that little stunt had drawn what she would assume was literally all of the attention in the station, with multiple officers asking if the “young man” was okay. “Now they show concern” Naoto bitterly thought to herself, the one day where she would adore it if everyone would pay zero attention to her. The pain of scalding hot coffee was almost worthless compared to the rage and humiliation she was being put through right now. Naoto swallowed hard, keeping pressed against the wall, and finally responded to her requests for help.

“I will be reviewing files today. Alone. Please do not disturb me. Ever.” Succinct and direct, and with a tone that immediately erased sympathy for her, the rest of the police station quickly got the memo. They did, however, indulge in watching the highly unusual sight of Detective Shirogane sidling up against the wall, chest pressed to it, slooowly inching his way to his makeshift office that had been set up in a corner of the station. Many would note that the time a potted plant was in the way and Detective Shirogane straddled it between his legs to ensure that his torso would never leave the wall, awkwardly floundering and nearly toppling himself over, was a particular highlight to their day. Those in attendance only wished that the security cameras in the main lobby actually worked, instead of everyone just pretending they did in this dump.  
  


Finally, in the privacy of her own office, Naoto locked her door and closed all of her blinds. There was nothing that she wasn’t utterly furious over. She hated rain. She hated alarm clocks. She hated cars. She hated the concept of color. She hated boobs. She hated Adachi. And she absolutely hated this day. Removing her coat, Naoto stared angrily at the… stupid failure tape that dared to defy her, higher vocabulary failing her in her fury. Her eyes scanned the room for any solution to her problem. Paper shredder, an old friend but worthless here. Casework, would fix matters later but not the present rage. Stapler. She considered it, but decided that tetanus and explaining to a doctor why she had dozens of puncture wounds around her chest would not be worth the cost at the moment. Eventually, she settled on a combination of scotch tape and her tie being wrapped underneath her arms in as tight of a knot as she could manage to solve the issue of unnecessary front-loaded attention from EVER crossing her mind again. Her coat, sadly, would have to be placed at the side of the room, drooping sadly on yet another damn coat hanger that _remained far too tall, the insensitive imbecile._ And with that, she could rest, sitting in her desk chair, broiling in her frustration.  
  


It took her a good half hour, but after long enough, she realized… she’d made quite the childish scene. Getting so angry over such inconveniences, even when stacked one upon another, was unbefitting the Shirogane family name. Shame washed over her at the thought, a display of her being thoroughly unable to control her emotions. Certainly, those around her would sympathize - it’s not as if Adachi was not getting an earful for this, obviously - but reparations had to be made for a more cohesive workspace. Yes, she would go out, swiftly apologize, hopefully receive no harassment in turn, and be able to focus on her work in a refreshed frame of mind. Naoto shook her head, rose to her feet, and opened the door.  
  


She met a pair of steely grey eyes, tinges of blue finding their way in. They belonged to who Naoto could only describe as a thug, being forced in by two officers clad in their light-blue uniforms, suddenly staring in her direction. A defiant glare had turned into a sudden moment of alarm, before a light red blush spread across the delinquent boy’s cheeks. It was only while noting odd lightness of his bleached-blonde hair that a sudden, explosive feeling of dread overwhelmed Naoto. It… couldn’t be. After all that… and he’s a _criminal._ A _dumb-looking criminal._ Hand trembling, Naoto reached out a hand to the side of her head, trying to shake some sense into herself. Slowly, all sense of logic and reality rapidly decaying around her, Naoto lowered her arm, looking at her palm, a few strands of hair resting therein.  
  


Cobalt Blue.  
  


Kanji Tatsumi would recall the first word he ever heard his soulmate say. And, in fact, the only time he had ever heard her say it.  
  


“FUCK”


End file.
